Chater Twelve: FRISKY BUSINESS

Monday 10:35 pm

            Derek had texted me while I was pacing around the Triple A studio.  Since the poker guys were all at my place, I’d enthusiastically said yes to his suggestion that I come over. 

Except that I was regretting it now. 

“You don’t need to get your own place, you know,” Derek said, after I told him that I thinking of moving out of Dad’s. 

Ever since referring to me as his girlfriend the other night, I’d been very aware of the fact that we were moving at two different speeds; mine hovers somewhere around glacial.  I am crazy about him, but the thought of commitment really freaks me out.

“My place is big enough for both of us,” he said.

My knees almost buckled at that.  “As amazing as you are, babe, it’s not a matter of being with you more.  I just want my own space.”

“I could put this place on the market and we could look for something together.” 

Oh oh.  More buckling. 

I could think of a million things I’d rather do  - like drink a Marmite and Drano smoothie – than have this conversation right now.  Serves me right for yakking about it before I’d thought it through.   Gawd, how I sometimes wished that my mouth were in my left buttock instead of being right next door to my brain.  Some thoughts should have to be tempered by distance before being verbalized.

Derek is awesome.  He’s very handsome, with thick dark hair, expressive eyes, a firm jaw, and a dynamite smile.  He also has a great sense of humour, a sharp intellect, and is fantastic in the sack.  What more could I want? 

In a word: Independence. 

In my band days, during my twenties, I had shared a house with friends for a while, and then later I had lived with a boyfriend.  That had been a huge mistake, but fortunately, it had been short lived.  So, it’s not as if I’ve never left the roost. 

Derek continued, “We could look for a house, maybe a three bedroom.  That way, we could each have our own home office.” 

“It’s not the size.  I’m just not sure I’m ready for such a big step.”  I could feel my neck stiffening. 

“We’re together all the time any way, or at least we are when our work schedules coincide,” he said.

“I’m just... It doesn’t... It’s about more than just being with you or not being with you or how big the house is.   I’ve always lived with other people.  I’ve never been totally on my own.  I need to do that.”

“Why? You know you can take care of yourself.  You don’t have to prove anything.”  He reached over to put his arm around me, but I pulled back. 

“It’s not a question of proving.  It’s a question of wanting,” I snapped.  I could feel my neck and shoulders knotting right up – quite the contrast to last night when Derek had been nuzzling them.

“Isn’t that a little indulgent?  I mean, look at Toronto real estate prices and rents.” 

My teeth were beginning to ache.  I couldn’t see this line of discussion taking us anyplace I wanted to go, and I wished again that I had kept my big mouth shut.  I wished I had just gone home and joined the poker players, whether they wanted me there or not. “I’m aware of what it costs to live in this city.  I’m also aware of the fact that I can decide what to do with my money.”

“Whoa... I’m not trying to tell you what to do.”

It sure felt like he was.  “I’m too tired to think about this right now.  Let’s just go to sleep.”

For the first time since we started seeing each other, we went to bed without having frenzied firecracker sex.  I tossed and turned for about two hours, then finally slipped out of bed.  I dressed in the dark, and then skulked down to the lobby, where I got the condo concierge to call me a cab. 

I’ve really got to get my driver’s licence.

Chapter Eleven: FRISKY BUSINESS

Monday 6:05 pm

            When I got home, I was greeted by the smell of cigars and an abundance of Y chromosomes.

            Damn.  I forgot that today was Shane’s monthly poker game with the boys.  It’s so weird for him to be off work two days in a row.  He likes to give the impression that Pastiche would fall apart without him in the kitchen.

There were six guys seated around the dining room table, each with a beer and a stack of chips in front of him.  In some cases, the chips were Pringles, but for the guys who were smiling, the chips were white and blue plastic ones, piled into neat little towers. 

            “I’ve got a bag full of money I’m dying to get rid of,” I said to the gang.

            “Nope.  Guys only,” Shane scowled, even though we have the exact same exchange every month.  And his tone tonight was less than jovial.  Saying it’s ‘guys only’ is just Shane’s way of saving face; he knows I’ve kicked his butt every time we’ve played Texas hold ’em.   After all, I have a black belt in bluffing.

            “Oh, come on.  We can make it more interesting by using a deck of Tarot cards.”  A couple of his friends laughed at this, but Shane just gave me a tight smile.   

            His friend James asked me about the gig from Saturday night.

“It was a blast,” I said.  “The place was packed.  You should have come.”

“I just heard from Shane today that you play in a band; he never mentioned it before.”
“Sure I did, you just never listen,” Shane said.

“I would have gone.  You’ve got to tell me about it before hand next time you have a gig.”

Shane was impatiently shuffling the deck, anxious to get back to the game.

“Will do,” I said.

            I’m smart enough to know when I’m not wanted, so I grabbed a bottle of Steam Whistle from the fridge, and went into the den, kind of wishing I really did have a deck of Tarot cards.  I had far too many questions about Kitty and what I should do next.  I flipped open a yellow notepad and started scrawling facts and ideas about the case, but the noise from the poker players was too distracting to think clearly. 

I took a moment to think of what to do next, not just with the case but with myself.  It seemed like a good idea to make myself scarce again tonight, but I felt a bit funny going to Derek’s three nights in a row.  Even though I’m all in favour of circumstances that improve my sex life... 

I was still hemming and hawing when my phone rang.  The display screen said “private caller,” but I picked up anyway.  I’d be out of a job in no time at all if I only ever talked to people I already know. 

“It’s Antonio calling, from Triple A, Triple X Films.”  His voice was very deep, and he had the slightest of Italian accents.  Must have come to Canada as a kid.

“Great to hear from you,” I said.

“I unnerstand you wanna talk to me about Kitty Vixen?  Nice girl.  Too bad about how she died,” he said.

“Yeah.  Perhaps you can help me figure it out.  Can we grab a coffee or something and chat for a few minutes?”

“I have a business meeting at eight tonight at Pravda.”   Pravda is a trendy, upscale, Russian themed bar on Wellington, not far from my office. Their menu offers a stellar array of vodkas, and diners can lap up a ten gram serving of Beluga for $170.  Not surprisingly, I’d never been inside.  “I can head over there now, if you want to talk right away,” he said.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”  I left my mostly full bottle of beer on the desk, and dashed up to my room.

I whipped off my tee-shirt and changed into a shimmery black backless top, did a quick touch up of my make-up.  I normally don’t care about being all fified up, but I didn’t need to look like a déclassé hick either.  I grabbed my red leather jacket and ran out the door without saying good night to the card-sharks.

My cell phone rang while I was in the taxi.  Call display said “private number.”   I assumed it was Antonio again, so I picked it up right away. 

“Hello?”

“Forget about Kitty.  Or else,” said a muffled voice.  “Leave it alone.  Or you’ll regret it.”

What? 

Whoever it was, they hung up before I had a chance to say anything.  The call was so brief, I couldn’t even tell if it was male or female, much less offer a guess as to whose voice it was.

I had no more time to think about the crank call because the cab had just pulled up in front of Pravda.  On the street just a few feet ahead of the entrance, the lovely antique Jaguar was parked.  I had already heard back from Randy, who had not only told me that Antonio  owned that car, but I also learned that the Maserati belonged to Frankie, and the Ferrari was registered to a root canal of a human being named Marko Calvino, also known as Bongo.  Randy had thoughtfully included copies of the driver’s licence photos for each of the three guys in his email to me. 

I walked up to the Jag and peeked inside.  The interior was pristine.  Smooth biscuit coloured leather upholstery on deep seats, tons of leg room, a steering wheel the size of a hula hoop, a speedometer that listed only miles, and handles to manually roll down the windows.  It was a beauty. 

The maitre d’ led me to Antonio’s table, a comfy, red velvet booth in the back corner.

“I thought it’d be better to talk back here, where it’s a little quieter.” Antonio said when I took my seat.

In the mid- to late-eighteen hundreds, an Italian criminologist named Lombroso made a name for himself by espousing his harebrained theories, all of which have since been disproven.  His contention was that criminal tendencies are present in an individual right from birth, and that a criminal is born with physical characteristics that distinguish him from regular, good and honest people.  According to Professor Lombroso, some of the physical features of a born criminal included a protruding jaw, a sloping forehead, big ears, and a unibrow. 

If I could put Lombroso into a time travel machine and bring him here to meet Antonio... 

“They do bottle service here,” he said, waving his hand towards a bottle of Ketel One sitting in the ice bucket in front of us.  He had a mother of a diamond pinkie ring on his left hand. I loved the irony of his ordering a Dutch product at a Russian establishment.  “Want some?”

“Sure.”  He signalled the waiter for another glass, and while he was at it, he ordered some caviar.  We made small talk until the waiter returned with a glass for me.

The first thing I did was ’fess up about my attempted chat with Portia.  She’d probably blabbed to the film guys anyway, and it served me better to try to keep my interactions with Antonio as un-antagonistic as possible.

“Portia didn’t want to talk to me at all.  It wasn’t like I was accusing her.  I just thought that maybe she, or any of the girls even, could help me figure out who killed Kitty.”  I took a sip of my chilled vodka.  It was thick, and very smooth.

“They all sign confidentiality forms when they start working for me.”

“I see.”

“Sorry.  For the record, as much as I’d like to see her killer caught, I don’t really know how I can help you.  I was at a convention in Los Angeles the weekend she was killed.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about XRatedCon.  I guess the first thing I’m wondering is why didn’t you bring Kitty to the convention?”

“I didn’t ask her because I didn’t think she’d want to go.  She was a little uptight around then, just broke up with her guy.  Didn’t think she’d want the stress of a convention and the time change and everything.  The show’s pretty exhausting, three long days.”

What?  The wildebeest was looking out for her best interests?  Doubtful.

“I heard she wasn’t upset by the break up at all, in fact I heard she was glad to be single again,” I said.

“Hey, what do I know?  She was kind of a screwed up chick.”  He shifted his girth in the seat. 

I didn’t see any benefit in pointing out that her job probably contributed to her screwedupness.  Instead I asked about drugs and co-workers.

“Obviously, the girls aren’t supposed to work if they’re high on anything, but I can’t control what they do outside the studio.”

“Did anyone she worked with have a beef with Kitty?”

“Not that I knew of.  Look, I won’t bullshit you by claiming that we’re one big family.  We’re not, the business is too transient, the girls in it all come with baggage.  But most of them just do their thing, collect their pay, and that’s it.”

“I hear Kitty wanted a raise.”

“Yeah, yeah, doesn’t everybody?  No one ever says ‘Gee, thanks, but I already have enough money.’ Yeah, she bitched about getting more money, so did a couple of the others, but who doesn’t?  After a while, I got so sick and tired of hearing all the griping, and the company has been doing okay lately, so about a month ago, I upped the pay scale to fifteen-hundred a day.  All the girls get that now.”

“Oh.  I didn’t know that.”

I guess that had happened after Trinity, Crystal and Raven had all quit.  Still though, I wondered how many of the current actresses are happy with their wages?  Unless they make a ton of flicks, they’ll never be driving Ferraris.

His eight o’clock meeting showed up a moment later, and I was none too subtly encouraged to leave, which was fine with me.  Antonio’s aura was noxious.

Antonio hadn’t come right out and told me to stay clear of his employees.  On the other hand, he hadn’t said that he’d tell them to co-operate either.

So, after Pravda, I hopped in a cab and headed down to the Triple A studio for the second time today.  Rather than going inside and raising red flags, and giving whoever was there a chance to concoct stories and co-ordinate lies, I decided I’d loiter around nearby. 

There was really nowhere to sit and watch and wait.  I wish I had detoured by Candace’s and borrowed her dog Chico so I could wander around the vicinity without attracting any attention. 

I could hear a bit of noise coming from AAA-XXX, so I knew someone was there, probably filming.  I slowly circled the block five or six times during the next hour, not really minding the apparent pointlessness of it all.  The walking gave me time to think.  Ideas coalesced.  Avenues to pursue occurred to me.  As I walked around the corner one more time, my patience was rewarded.  Three shapely girls had just exited from the studio.  I watched them for a second to see if any boyfriends or studio guys joined them.  Two of the three girls lit cigarettes and then they all started walking.  No one else exited the building.  I jogged a bit to catch up with the trio when they reached the intersection.

“Hi.  Excuse me.  Can I talk to you for a second?”

All three turned to look at me.  The short girl in the middle asked, “What’s up?”

“My name is Sasha Jackson.  I’m an investigator.”

“So?” asked the tallest of the three, a lean and lanky black girl with the sharpest cheekbones and most mesmerizing eyes I’ve ever seen.  I’d seen in her in the videos yesterday, Devondra Something.

 “It’s about Kitty Vixen,” I said.

Shorty and the girl on her right wordlessly turned and walked away. 

Cheekbones exhaled a plume of smoke, looked me up and down, and said, “The cops already talked to us back in September.  There’s nothing more to say.” 

Her two colleagues had already crossed the street.

“Sure there is.  Whoever killed Kitty is still out there.  Wouldn’t you rather see the bastard locked up?  Please, just give me five minutes.”

I hate it when I sound like I’m begging.

“Look, if you want info, best ask the bosses.  We don’t know nothing about nothing.” She took one more drag of her cigarette, flicked the butt onto the sidewalk behind me, and then darted across the street to catch up with her two friends.

If I were to choose the soundtrack for the moment that followed, it would be “Should I Stay or Should I Go” by The Clash. 

I could follow the three girls, and then maybe I’d at least cotton on to an address or a hangout that might be handy to know down the road.  But, they had already had a good look at me, so I wouldn’t likely be able to tail them secretly.  Besides, openly tagging along after them would probably antagonize them, which would make it harder to win them over should I try to question them again later.  I gave up. 

I cued up a new song on my mental soundtrack and began humming “The Waiting is the Hardest Part” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.  This was such a lousy block to try to flag a taxi.  After several minutes, an orange and green taxi rolled into view.  I flagged it down and hopped in.

Chapter Ten: FRISKY BUSINESS

Monday 3:42 pm

I’m forever finding new ways of jolting my worldview.  After working at a phone sex line, visiting strip joints, hanging out at a bordello, and bartending at a fetish party, I’m rather desensitized to smut in all its forms.  However, walking into a porno film studio was a new one for me.         

The studio, a one-story, brick building with a glass fronted entrance, was on Sunlight Park Road, just off Broadview, at Eastern Avenue.  The big window to the left of the doorway was covered with an opaque black curtain, which blocked out all the warmth of the street’s namesake. The studio is more or less in the area known as the “Film District,” although AAA-XXX is located on the wrong street, at the wrong end of the neighbourhood,  and too far away from any of the real players to absorb their Hollywood North cachet. 

In the parking lot beside the studio, I spotted three cars, each one worth more than the house where I live.  The first car was a canary yellow, two-seater Ferrari, next to it was a black Maserati Grand Turismo, and beside that was the pièce de resistance: a candy apple red antique Jaguar with white walled tires.  It looked like it was probably from the early Fifties.  Sweet rides, all of them, or so sayeth the chick without a licence. 

I pulled out my smart phone and took a photo of the licence plate on each car.  You just never know...

“Hello,” I called out as soon as I entered the studio. 

The reception area was empty and quiet, but the place was screaming “misogyny.”  From floor to ceiling, the walls were plastered with pictures of naked women, many of whom were posed at angles that showed off their double-jointedness. 

“Anyone here?” The lobby consisted of nothing more than a couple of plastic, folding chairs  that were even cheaper than the ones in my office.  There was a plywood counter with a swinging door behind it.  I contemplated going through the door, but if the reception area was any indication, then the Jizznyland on the other side of it would probably make my toes curl. 

“You’re late.  Don’t let it happen again,” said a muscular guy in his early twenties.  His biceps stretched the sleeves of his navy blue tee-shirt, his cheeks were pockmarked with scars from adolescent acne, and his amber tinted John Lennon glasses looked too small for his head.  “Go on through.  Change room’s on the left.”

“Excuse me?  I’m not an, um, actress.”

Four Eyes on Steroids checked me out from head to toe.  “Wanna audition?  Nice face, and people love blonds.  You a natural?”

“Yes...”

“Good.  It’s better when the carpet matches the drapes.”

In my mind, I punched him in the nose.

“I’ve never heard it put—”

“Looks like you got a good body, even though your tits are kinda small for film.”

Excuse me?

“I thought the camera added ten pounds?” I said.

“Not where you need it, babe,” he said.

What?

Enough.

“I’m an investigator,” I said, handing him my card. “Sasha Jackson.  And you are...?”

“I’m Bongo.”

Of course you are…

“Is Antonio or Frankie around?”

“Nope.”

I seriously didn’t think any of the hot rods in the parking lot belonged to an actress or to the lighting and sound crew.  So, Bongo was probably lying to me about the presence of either Antonio or Frankie, or both.

“Oh, then you must be in charge.”

“Not really.”

“Are you the film director?”

“Nah, I just do cameras.”

I have no idea how much cameramen earn, but probably not enough to buy a fancy car.  If indeed one of the cars out there was his.  And would a cameraman wear amber tinted specs?

“Cameras?  That’s pretty cool.  I’ve always been interested in the technical side of filmmaking.  How long have you been doing it?”

“Just a coupla years.  Look, I’m kinda busy right now.  What do you want?”   

 “I’m looking into the death of Kitty Vixen.” 

“Oh, her. Shame what happened.”

Behind the tinted lenses, Bongo did an impressive job of holding back his tears.

“I understand she was one of your top stars.”

“Yeah. Her flicks get downloaded thousands of times a month. Kitty did some wild stuff.  People really got off on her.”

“Yeah, well, someone didn’t,” I said.

“Too bad. She was like a tree that money grows on.”

“Any idea who killed the golden goose?” I asked, deftly mixing the metaphors.

“Chicks like that, they can piss off guys in real life, you know.  The camera’s one thing, but face to face, chicks can be bitches.  Porno actresses all act like prima-fucking-donnas in person.”

Gee, if this is his recruitment speech...

“So, who would have wanted her dead?”

“My guess? She pissed off the wrong guy.  An ex-boyfriend or a dealer.” 

It just occurred to me that I should find out who Kitty’s dealer had been, since people kept bringing it up.  My gut told me her death wasn’t related to drugs, but it’s my motto to leave no stoner unturned.

“Got any names?” I asked.

“Nope.  Sorry.”

“Could I talk to some of her co-stars?”  I wondered if Portia was back there somewhere, teasing and cavorting for her next web-cam chat.  I wondered if I had made a mistake in approaching her that way, if I should have waited to try talking to the girls until after I’d talked to the head honchos.  It was a moot point now.  “Maybe someone can shed some light on something?”

“The only broads on site right now are a couple of new ones.  Probably couldn’t tell you anything.” 

 “When might you be filming with people who knew Kitty?  I can come back then, or better yet, I can come back when Antonio and Frankie are here.”

Ahem, like now. 

He tapped on my business card. “How ’bout I’ll let you know?”

I nodded.  I had little faith that I’d hear from him.  I mean, really, how reliable can a guy named Bongo be?

As I walked along Eastern, trying to find a taxi, I placed a quick call to one of my secret sources, a fellow investigator named Randy, who has more connections, greater resources, and even less respect for rules than I have.  I asked him to run the licence plates of the three chick magnets in the parking lot. 

This was a lousy place to try to find a taxi, so I turned onto Lewis and walked north to Queen Street.  As soon as I got to the corner, a streetcar rolled into sight.  I hopped on and rode the few short blocks to Bricknell.

A friendly, rotund woman at the reception desk of the Allbright Retirement home offered to page Sam Zwicker for me.

“He should be along in a minute.  Why don’t you have a seat?”

Instead of sitting, I paced around the lobby.  I didn’t have to pace long though as Sam, pushing his cart of cleaning supplies, emerged from the elevator a moment later.

He was stocky and short, only about five feet eight or nine, with a shaved head and no front teeth.  The sleeves of his blue janitor’s uniform were rolled up, revealing tattoos up and down both forearms.   I could also see a part of a tattoo around the open collar of his uniform shirt, and a small cross on a gold chain.  I couldn’t discern what the images were, and the colour of the ink was pretty drab. 

I introduced myself and explained why I was here.  “I’m sorry to barge in on you when you’re working, but every time I tried your cell, I got a message saying ‘mailbox is full’.”

“Damn, still?  I been having problems with my cell provider.  I thought it was fixed,” he said.

“Doesn’t seem to be.  Anyhow, can we talk about Kitty?”

“Sure, but it’s gotta be quick.  I still have a lot to do before I’m finished, and I can’t stay late today because I have a meeting right after work.”

“No problem.  Why don’t we step out front so we can have a bit of privacy?”  He followed me out through the heavy double doors.  A car was idling right by the entryway, so we took a few steps to the side. 

“I assume you heard about Kitty? About how she died?”I asked him, and he nodded in reply.  “Is there anything at all you can tell me?”

“You know the meeting I just said I gotta go to?  After work?” Sam asked.

“Yes?”

“It’s N.A.”
            “Narcotics Anonymous?”

“Yeah.  I started going to meetings a while ago.  Actually this Sunday’s gonna be my ninth month anniversary of going straight.  I started the meetings after I did a month in rehab back in the winter.  Reason I’m telling you this is because I don’t hardly remember much of dating Kitty.”

“Oh.”

“That was around when I was hitting bottom.  The last couple of months of it’s all a blur.  Meth mainly.”

“I see.”  That explained the missing teeth.

“And then I started to get right fucked up on bath salts.  It was pretty bad.  Those are some nasty shit and I’m real lucky to be alive.”

“Did Kitty try to help you get off drugs?  I know she had some problems with them herself.”

“Nah.  I don’t really know how she stopped using, didn’t care, didn’t ask.  And I lied to her a lot about what I was doing.  That’s why she dumped me, but I didn’t give a shit.  I was just real freaking high all the time, and wasn’t interested in anything else.  I think I was kinda glad when she ditched me ’cuz then I could just go ahead and get wasted a lot more and not have her bugging me about it all the time.”

“What was the turning point for you?”

“I was in a car accident and I got banged up real bad.  It was a stolen car too, but at least it weren’t me driving.  While I was lying in the emergency room at the hospital, Jesus came to me.  That was the moment that I realized that I had to finally let God into my life.  Turns out that joyride was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Oh.  Well, good for you, and congrats on going straight,” I said.

“I wouldn’t be able to do it without the Lord.”

I shook his hand and thanked him for chatting with me.  “Godspeed,” I said.  That certainly seemed like the appropriate parting word.

My instincts are usually pretty good.  My gut told me Sam was telling the truth, and that he had nothing to do with Kitty’s death.  No one could make up a story like that.  As well, when most people tell lies about themselves, they generally tell tales that put them in a better light.

So, what next?

Chapter Nine: FRISKY BUSINESS

Monday 1:02 pm

I decided to head to my office, which is near the St. Lawrence Market, about a twenty minute walk from Regent Park. 

I glanced around the simple room and thought about space.  If I bought my own condo, would I still need an office?  Very little of my work is actually done here and more often than not, I meet with clients and contacts off-site.  But this is another part of the city that I really love, and I’m happy to have a reason to come here.  The market itself has a cool history – having once been a jail and a courthouse, and there’s lots of other interesting architecture around here too, like the Flatiron building.  During the summer, there are lots of cool buskers and outdoor events.  But just because the neighbourhood is really pretty to look at or hang out in, I’m not sure that justifies forking over a fistful of dollars every month for my office rent.  On the other hand, I had just leased this place a few months ago, after my old office off Yonge Street got trashed, and I wasn’t sure I was up for another move, another major change just yet.

Still, though... Maybe I could find a place where I could have a home office? But I kind of like having a mental and physical separation between my personal and professional lives, plus the solitude here is beneficial.  I can stare at the walls for hours and feel like I’m being productive.  Something about the functional environment wakes up the sluggish part of my brain. 

I ordered a pizza, which is another good way of kick-starting my sluggish brain.  I made several phone calls while awaiting the delivery. 

First up was Corey, and he hung up on me as soon as I identified myself.  That was twice now that he’d blown me off.  Strange behaviour for someone with nothing to hide.

Strike two was my call to Sam.  After I dialed his number and waited to leave a message, a computer recording came on again saying “This mailbox is full.”

Next I tried Crystal Frost and got her voicemail.  Strike three.  I left my number. 

Then I tried Professor McPhee again, and got his voicemail too.  Strike four.  I left my number again. 

Much to my surprise, my fifth call actually reached a human. 

“Hi Trinity,” I said after I’d introduced myself.  “Raven gave me your number.”

“I was hoping I’d hear from you.  Any leads so far?” she asked.

“Whoa, slow down; I’ve only just begun.  I’d love to chat with you face to face, though.  Are you free at all this afternoon?  Can you swing by my office??”

“Sure, but only for a little while.  I can be there in about an hour.” 

“That’d be perfect.”  I gave Trinity my address and hung up the phone feeling like I had accomplished something. 

I still had probably half an hour before the pizza would arrive, and had no one else to phone right now.  When all else fails, or when I’m bored, I get ideas from television.  However, things rarely unfold for me as they did for Jim Rockford or Lieutenant Columbo, and admittedly the ideas I latch onto aren’t always good ones. 

As it happens, my latest brainwave came via a medical drama rather than a detective show.  I remembered that on an episode of House long ago, the Hugh Laurie character had needed some Dutch translation in the middle of the night.  He and his team of medical wizards had logged on to the internet and found a live sex chat from Amsterdam.

I didn’t need to search as far afield as the Netherlands.  I fired up the computer, logged on to the home page for AAA-XXX, and clicked on the tab for private webcam chats.  I entered Dad’s credit card number from memory.  There were several girls available online to chat.  I scrolled through the page until I found a name I recognized.  Portia.

I remembered that Athena said Portia turned a little bitchy when someone called her out for wearing Kitty’s red boots. 

“Well, hello there Sugar,” purred Portia, the actress with whom I was about to have my first ever live web-cam sex chat.  But without the sex. 

Portia’s feet were bare today though, and so was most of the rest of her.  She was clad in a skimpy black lacy thing, lying a king sized bed with a black leather headboard and black satin sheets. 

“I just want to talk,” I said.

“Of course you do.  I bet you want to talk dirty... real dirty...”

“No.  No, I don’t.  Listen, I’ve already paid for fifteen minutes.  I don’t want sex, I don’t want dirty talk.  I just need information.  You can relax.”

“Are you trying to get into role playing?”

I held my business card up to my web camera.  “I want to find out what happened to Kitty Vixen.”

“I have nothing to say.” And with that she put her hand over the web-cam at her end. 

Damn.

“Were you friends with Kitty?” I asked. 

No answer.

“Any idea who killed her?”

No answer. 

Why was Portia, like Corey, so unwilling to talk to me?

I waited out the silence for the next eleven minutes until the pop up window prompted me to pay for another session. 

I clicked back to the AAA-XXX homepage and looked to see who else was available for a live camera chat.  There were plenty of other girls available, but just then my pepperoni, mushroom and double cheese pizza arrived.  As soon as I took the first bite, my phone rang. 

Aha.  Crystal was the first to return my phone call.  I’d have bet on McPhee. 

 “Obviously, I want to help,” she said, with a slight slur, after we exchanged the requisite pleasantries.   It seemed a bit early in the day to already have a glow on.  “But really all I can tell you about is feelings.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Kitty was on a kick about equality and fair pay.  I bet that had something to do with why she got killed.  In my gut, that’s what I think, anyway.”

“Raven mentioned something like that to me.  What else can you tell me?” 

Even though I’d been asking about drugs and the ex-boyfriend, I hadn’t forgotten about the pay issue, but I didn’t yet know where to go with it.  It seemed to me that whatever raise she might have wanted - let’s say even if it was from a thousand bucks a day to two thousand - it wasn’t enough money to kill for.  Besides, it was clear that Kitty was a cash cow for Triple A, so they’d probably be more inclined to keep her alive in order to keep milking her. 

Crystal said, “I know Kitty said she talked to some woman who might help us, but the name escapes me.  I’ve been racking my brains about it, but I can’t remember.  Sorry.” 

“Was her only gripe the money?” I asked.

“Hell no.  She was just generally pissed about the pay and benefits and everything.  Like she said we should have sick leave and paid vacations, but ’cuz we’re freelancers, we don’t get any of those things.”

We chatted for a few more minutes, but she didn’t tell me anything new or anything useful.   

I’d technically been on the case for almost forty-eight hours, and I had absolutely no idea yet who killed Kitty or why anyone would have wanted her dead.  Maybe Trinity would give me a lead that would change everything.

I was debating whether or not to have a third slice or not when Trinity showed up.

She was quite good-looking and well proportioned, with a long mane of wavy chestnut hair.   Despite Trinity’s natural attractiveness, she seemed to have a rough veneer or a hardened edge to her; you could tell she’d been around the block a few times.  It didn’t help that her eyes were a little on the glassy side - probably smoked a joint on her way here.  She wasn’t exactly skanky, not at all, but even if Trinity were wearing the best that Fifth Avenue had to offer, she would never be mistaken for one of the Ladies Who Lunch. 

“Thanks for coming in.  Have a seat.”  At some point, I’d have to buy some better chairs for visitors.  It’s hard to feel gracious when I steer guests to a folding plastic seat.   “Want some pizza?” I asked, indicating the open box.  Again, not exactly the hostess with the mostess.

“Sure.”  I handed Trinity a slice on a paper napkin and a can of Brio.  Good thing I had ordered two.  Then I helped myself to a third slice. 

“I can’t stay too long,” she said before taking a bite.  She was sitting forward in her chair, leaning in, with the pizza slice over the desk.

“That’s fine.”

“How’s the investigation going?”

It only took me about two minutes to give her a summary of my work thus far.  I mean, really, how many ways can one say jack squat, bupkus, and sweet fuck all?

“What was it like when you first started to work for them?” I asked.

According to Derek, an unofficial motto of lawyers is: Never ask a question unless you already know the answer.

“Ha!  It was great, but not for long.”

“What do you mean ‘great’?”

I waited a moment while Trinity finished chewing her bite of pizza. 

“When you first start out with them, they treat you like you’re a fucking movie star.  They’ll have someone do your hair and make-up.  They buy some sexy lingerie for you.  Supply you with blow, booze, you name it.  Antonio had a limo driver pick me up even.  Can you believe it?  An actual limo.  I had never been in one before.  But he only did that for my first few films.”

“That’s what I thought.  Then they scale back on everything, right?”  I asked.

It was sad to meet someone whose experiences were just as Derek had described them the other night.   I could see that this was exactly the same path as Athena was on.

“Yup.  But by then, what’re you supposed to do?   I didn’t even finish grade nine.  And, at the time I thought, you know, the money’s still pretty good.”

Neither of us said anything for a few minutes.  Part of me was angry, and another part felt saddened.  Essentially, I have no problem with people doing whatever it is they want to do, provided they’re doing it with their eyes open and of their own free will.  But I do have a problem with coercion and duress, with manipulation and exploitation. 

I finished my pizza slice and reached into the box for a fourth.  “Want another?” I offered.

“You bet.  I’m starved.”

We both quietly munched for a moment. 

“I keep coming back to - or being steered back to - the ex-boyfriend, or drugs, or the pay at Triple A, or XRatedCon.  What can you tell me about any of them?”  I asked.

“Corey was kind of a douche.  I think he was only dating Kitty ’cuz he liked to brag about having a hot porn star for a girlfriend, and Kitty was super hot.  I dunno what she saw in him, except he’s pretty cute.  He was real pushy about sex, and hardly ever took her out, just seemed to always wanna go back to her place and screw.”

“Well, why else date a porn star?”  I rolled my eyes, and took a sip of my Brio.  “Any idea why Corey wouldn’t want to talk to me?”

“Beside just being a douche, you mean?”

I nodded. 

“I dunno,” she said, and shrugged her shoulders.

“What about the guy she was seeing before Corey?  Sam?”

“Sam?  I doubt he had anything to do with her death.  No one really hangs with him much anymore.”

“Maybe he had nothing to do with it, but maybe he knows something that will help me find out who did.  Maybe he knows of a fight she had with someone, or an enemy...”

“I guess.”

“Any idea where I can find him?  I haven’t had any luck phoning him,” I said.

“I heard a while ago that he was working at an old folks home, I don’t know the name, but somewhere near Queen and Bricknell, right by the beer store.”

“Thanks.  I was also wondering about XRatedCon.  Any thoughts as to why Kitty didn’t go?”

“I have no idea.  Maybe Tonio and Frankie didn’t ask her to?”

“I find that hard to believe.  What I heard is that Kitty was their biggest star.  Seems they’d want her there.  Instead, she stays here and gets killed,”  Trinity said.

“If only she’d gone, she’d probably be alive still,”

We were interrupted by the William Tell Overture. De-da-dum-de-da-dum-de-da-dum-dum-dum....  The ringtone on Trinity’s cell phone.

“Sorry, just give me a sec,” she said to me.   I nodded.  She walked into the hall to take the call, but returned just a moment later.

“Interesting ringtone.  You’re a fan?”

“Yeah, I love The Lone Ranger.  I just watched the whole first season on Netflix a couple weeks ago.”

I could see it now:  The masked man and his faithful sidekick Rossini.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I gotta run,” she said.  “Gimme a call if you have any more questions.”

           

I tilted back my chair and closed my eyes.  Even though no one had said anything that made me seriously suspicious of Corey, the fact that he’d blown me off twice made me twice as eager to talk to him.  I knew better than to phone him again though.  It suddenly occurred to me that my ex-boyfriend, and occasional band mate, Mick could help me out. 

Mick owns a motorcycle, a monster of an antique Harley that sounds like it uses steroids and chainsaws for fuel.  Mick had helped me with some of my cases in the past, and had put himself in danger by doing so.   Surely, visiting a motorcycle showroom couldn’t possibly be as risky as posing as my betrothed?

“You don’t have to pretend to be my fiancé this time,” I said after telling Mick that I needed a favour.

“If the favour involves guns, hookers or spray paint, count me out.”

“I want to check out a motorcycle shop.”

“You never wanted to do that when we were dating.”

I explained what I had in mind.

“This sounds like a delightful disaster in the making, and I’ll do it.  The only thing is, can we hold off until tomorrow?  I’m a little tied up right now.”

“Tomorrow’s fine.”